A Virus Bonded to Magic
by Shieldage
Summary: A wish brings the Human-Metahuman Vampiric Virus from the techno-savvy reality of Shadowrun to Cleveland's Hellmouth.
1. The Event

BtVS by Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Shadowrun RPG by FASA, WizKids, FanPro, Hare-Brained Schemes.

Borrowing the demons as soul-stuff concept from Piers Anthony's Xanth.

* * *

**-Cleveland, 2000 AD, Buffyverse-**

This reality was ruled and fought over by True Demons until, in ancient times, humans and other things rebelled, exiling their former masters to less savory dimensions. Lesser demons still roam the world, along with human magic-users, but modern society does not believe.

The last True Demon, in fear of being forgotten completely, created vampires to carry on its legacy. These creatures were able to kill humans and reanimate their bodies with lesser copies of the original Demon. These risen vampires possess all the memories of their human lives, but their human soul has fled.

While being made of similar stuff to the human soul, and existing on the same intangible plane, these demons burn out too much of their energies on keeping a foothold in the physical world to act as a proper soul. As a result, the vampires they animate have no conscience.

They can, however, feel.

##

There's a dive in Cleveland known as the Side Bar. They don't serve blood, human or otherwise. Too much overhead and the owner doesn't have the resources for a steady supply. It's a common hang-out for the winged-and-horned crowd; just about anyone can come in and be served a drink as long as their money is green, or a color not too far from it.

One particular night, a black-haired vampire took a seat at the bar. He'd been in enough times that the owner poured a shot of whiskey without having to be asked.

The next customer in the door was a nondescript brown-haired vampire. He paid for a drink and took a seat in a dark corner. Black-hair noted that the name in brown-hair's wallet was Sam, but otherwise ignored his fellow creature of the night.

About an hour later, under the influence of the alcohol, black-hair was pouring his heart out to a bald guy in a leather jacket. The new guy had introduced himself as the 'Mailer Daemon' and had said that he was enjoying one of his few days away from his computer.

Black-hair had mostly ignored this info, in favor of his own sorrows.

In fact, the depressed vampire was nearly at the point of tears, thoughts of all the stuff he missed from being alive spilling out of his mouth...

##

The torrent finally ended in the sentence: "I wish I could feel my heart beating again."

The Mailer Daemon specialized in things like subtle dimensional transference, although certain things like direct teleportation were beyond him. This wish was within his power to grant, even while somewhat drunk, so he did.

##

**-Seattle, 2063 AD, Shadowrun-**

A few dimensions to the reft of the 'verse, there lies a much more magically-capable reality. Modern society has no choice but to believe in things that go bump in the night, as they made national news fifty years ago. Magic in this reality is caused by the nearness of still other half-formed realities. When those 'metaplanes' fade into the distance, so does magic and the creatures that depend on it.

When magic is at its peak, the dimensional barriers are the weakest. In the past, this has allowed unspeakable Horrors to consume the surface of the planet, causing the collapse of civilization many times over, but they are the ones most affected by the ebb and flow of magic.

While the next natural conjunction of realities is still hundreds, if not thousands, of years away, many advance scouts of the Horrors have taken strides to hasten the coming Apocalypse. They've been warned of the immense leaps in human technology and for the first time, in the vision of a future Earth fully prepared for their arrival, the dark hordes have found something to fear.

The vampires of this reality are not a purposeful creation, but the natural result of the Human Meta-Human Vampiric Virus, a rapidly mutating strain evolved to incorporate _ambient _magic into its genetic code. While its victims enter into a state of near-death, they do not actually die. Souls are not forced out and replaced by a foreign entity; instead they are as much of a victim of the virus as the body.

The souls of these vampires require the Essence of other souls to remain intact, but they still are, on a very basic level, human.

Also, while one of the core themes of this reality is that its native magic can't alter time or open portals to stable alternate worlds, by the same token there's nothing to prevent other realities where such things are common from reaching in and taking things out...

##

Quietly managing to ignore the daylight, a viral vampire was sitting on a bench in a park, waiting for her contact to arrive. She was planning to hire a team of mercenaries to take out her sire without letting them know about her true nature.

Between partial shade, the sunglasses and the immensely high SPF sunblock sufficiently advanced tech had brought to the world, she was able to withstand the daylight-

Right up until the point her heart suddenly stopped beating.

##

She had a second to ponder the anomaly, before even the indirect sunlight overwhelmed her and she burst into flame.

Mere seconds after her first scream rang through the park there was nothing left of her but a smoking pile of dust.

##

Left in her place was the red-eyed, green-skinned, spiky true form of the creature that had been pulled from the demonic kind of vampire sitting in the Side Bar.

The demon laughed as it felt its arms and leg because, normally, it was impossible for its kind to exist separate from an ex-human host.

However, this new world was a place of vital magic and a truly stable astral plane...

It crowed with glee as its physical form faded from the park bench to exist in the realm of light and shadow, a plane that most mortals could never hope to see… A truly awesome place to hunt from.

It zoomed off in search of victims-

Only to have its head bitten off a few seconds later, a thousand miles away, by a giant preying mantis who had decided She didn't need the competition.

##

**-Side Bar, Cleveland, Buffyverse-**

"Granted," the Mailer Daemon announced solemnly.

"Yeah, right," the changed vampire said, crossly, finishing his drink.

He didn't notice his heart beating until he had drained the last drop of whiskey.

By then it was too late; the second the liquor hit the new metabolism of his stomach he was overwhelmed by nausea.

He was barely able to make it out the door in time.

The bemused Daemon moved to follow the black-haired vampire, only to have someone walk up from behind, place a well-manicured hand on his shoulder and say: "... I wish to feel my heart beating again."

The Daemon turned to meet the gaze of the brown-haired vamp, 'Sam' by his wallet.

After staring into those brown eyes and the unsaid thoughts flitting behind them, the Daemon came to a decision and handed the undead being a small brass ring.

"Help yourself," the granter of wishes stated, before he turned around, swaying slightly, and followed the first vampire out the door.

Uncertain of what had just happened, Sam gingerly held the circlet up to the bar's mounted light and, very gently, touched the pulsing darkness within.

##

**-The Previous Week, A Dark Alley-**

He'd taken the wrong route through town and was now paying the very unexpected consequences.

Unable to fight off his attacker any longer, Samuel Verne felt a sudden pressure in his chest, the pain second only to the fangs in his neck as the vampire behind him drank deeply.

Figures, he thought darkly, a heart attack on top of everything else.

Too soon after that, he was drained and left for dead in that alley.

All too soon he rose from the dead, a nightmare preying on his friends and family...

##

**-Side Bar-**

Shivering after the momentary contact with his past self, Sam the fledgling vampire pulled his hand back, his fingers wet with blood.

He licked it off as new memories flooded his mind and he knew that… somehow… he had not only touched his still-beating heart, but his human soul as well.

After a pause, he came to a decision - there in the town where he had died.

He held the circlet up and spent his last few moments 'alive' calculating the angles from the presumed placement of his old heart to that of his sire, who, all things considered, had turned out to be a rather large jerk. Once he was certain of his path, Sam forcefully plunged his arm into the hole through time.

##

**-The Past's Dark Alley-**

It would be hard to tell which of the two men was the most surprised when the arm erupted from Samuel Verne's back and plunged into the chest of his would-be sire.

The supernaturally strong hand clutched that vampire's heart and ripped it out, causing both it and the surprised undead to explode in a cloud of dust.

Its work done, the displaced limb did not withdraw back into Sam's chest. Instead, it simply ceased to exist.

##

Sam, now unsupported by the vampire's grip, sank to his knees, slowly bleeding from the wounds in his neck and the gaping hole in his back.

The hole which led all the way down to his obliterated heart.

Strangely enough, he was filled with a sense of immense accomplishment as he toppled forward and the lights went out for the last time.

##

**-Outside the Side Bar-**

Quite unaware of Sam's fate, the altered black-haired vampire ignored the Daemon standing beside him as he sprawled on the ground, the last feeling of nausea fading from his system to be replaced by a hunger, a craving, and a realization.

He breathed without effort. His heart beat. His inner demon was gone, replaced by his own personal soul.

However, his hunger for blood was still there along with a new craving for something... else.

##

The black-haired vampire stood up and walked away from the bar, towards the darker section of town. He walked down a few twisty alleyways (some half-existing) and arrived at the door of the Pink Porsche, the local demon brothel.

A regular customer there, he was granted admittance to the Bar & Grill portion. He ordered an overpriced vial of blood, fresh from one of the staff and was sated surprisingly quickly, yet his new craving only grew stronger…

Leaving that place, letting his feet take him where they may, he found himself outside an apartment that he could tell by smell was home to only a healthy female.

In the dark night, he stood outside her house and pushed, not only against any supposed barrier to his intrusion, but against his very being. Somehow he was able to disrupt the bonds that held his molecules together. With the new changes to his body, it was child's play for him to slip underneath the door.

He re-formed in a living room where a huge lacquered cross decorated the wall.

He reached out and touched it, yet it did not respond to him. It would not burn him, for there was no longer a demon living within him.

_There is pain,_ he thought._ But is of the mind, not the body; it is... what do you call it... psychosomatic. Still, Ouch. _He removed his hand from the cross and winced, rubbing his reddened flesh against his leg. However 'real' the pain was, it still hurt.

He strolled into the bedroom and saw the woman there, peaceful and beautiful. He perceived her soul, her essence, her life, swirling _within/throughout_ her flesh. He very gently put his hand onto her shoulder and she woke, eyes wide with fright.

Amidst her scream, he sunk his teeth into her neck and drank of her very soul, made fresh and full with her fear, along with a token amount of blood...

##

The world of demons and Slayers would never be the same. The changes seen in him aren't half of what the causal agent can do. HMHVV isn't just a spell or a magical being, it's a virus... And viruses evolve very quickly.


	2. Infection: Humans

BtVS by Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Shadowrun RPG by FASA, WizKids, FanPro, Hare-Brained Schemes.

My apologies if it's a slightly AU Shadowrun that the causal agent is pulled from. Inexperience on my part, plus the many editions and my personal taste are probably enough to throw it somewhat off :)

* * *

**-2000 AD, The Janet Arms Apartment Complex, Cleveland-**

A minute or so into the draining it occurred to the woman she could resist the vampire's pull.

Her fear quickly changed to anger and she thrashed about, enough to disrupt the process momentarily.

Unwilling to let go, the vampire took a deep breath and called upon inner reserves of strength. His victim had nearly made it off the bed before he suddenly twisted and pinned her down with immense force.

Her ribs nearly crunched under the added strain.

Despite her gasping protests he resumed the process and, all too soon, she found her rage dissolving into ecstasy and lust.

A few minutes later and she was begging him to drain her dry, take all of her...

##

Those were her last words before he realized he'd drained her completely.

"This is so weird," he said to himself. "She still has blood, her heart is beating, but there's no-one left behind her eyes. I've consumed her will to live. Maybe I've eaten her soul. I don't have anyone to talk to about this."

He dropped her limp form carelessly onto the bed and began to pace around the room in a panicked state.

"I've just been operating on autopilot. I'm not sure this is what I want. I'm alive, but I'm still a vampire. I'm a better vampire," he said, stopping his nervous pacing in front of the door leading to the bathroom. "And, if so much else has changed..."

Steeling himself, he opened the door and walked over to the sink.

The bathroom mirror reflected his approach.

"Huh," he said, absent-mindedly wetting a towel to mop up the slight trickle of blood running down his cheek. "Myself in the mirror. Long time no see. I think I'll name you Jonas. No. I mean I'll rename myself Jonas. Better to assume a new identity from the ground up than be bound by what I've done as a human or as a demon."

His ears pricked up as, in the other room, the woman's vital processes began shutting down.

"Oh, really," he asked aloud as he moved to stand over her. "No long coma for you, eh? Oh, hey... Fear, rage and lust. From the flow of you into me I know that those are the keys to consuming another person... Without strong emotion my efforts are useless. Thanks."

He sat down next to her on the bed and lifted her head up so he could stare into her sightless eyes.

"I have changed, and this world has never seen the the like of me. I wonder if you'd like to join me. I don't know all about myself, but I could learn faster by watching you... Okay, it's settled then. The breed that I now found by turning you will be called," he said, twirling her long black hair about his fingers for a moment as he considered his options. "Windfell, for this truly has been a lucky break; it sounds nice, and it's vague."

That said to his satisfaction, the newly-named Jonas focused his will and pushed himself into her, metaphorically speaking.

It was a long and slow process, ending with his first victim's body being driven far, far beyond coma... Down to the deepest state of hibernation possible without immense cold.

He left her there, her heart only beating rarely and faintly. Her heart had become less of a natural, vital organ and more of a rough-edged tool pumping only the blood necessary for change.

She lay there for three days, untouched and unmissed.

The sun and moon caressed her face in their turn, her few neighbors too strung out or too self-involved to notice anything amiss.

With the darkening of the third night, she jerked into a sitting position.

Her eyes were free of conscious thought and showed nothing but a ravenous hunger.

##

Jonas was there to greet her.

"Ease my pet," he said, patting her hand, which flinched away at his touch.

Examining the half-seen radiance _within/throughout_ her skin, he was quietly impressed that she could be aware of her surroundings even while being so empty inside.

"You'll feel more like yourself after a good meal," he said, grinning as he pulled a bound and gagged person up to her side.

She accepted the gift with a rudimentary gratitude.

Hours passed before she managed a 'Thank You' at his next offering of 'food'.

Another day came and went before her transforming brain connected with her newly recharged soul...

And Jonas was there to 'help' her with that too.

##

...Weeks passed...

##

**-A Small Half-Buried Pyramid, Newfoundland, Canada-**

When a gift is created, the idea implies the existence of a giver. The more powerful the gift, the more influential the backers, the more likely that the faith in the concept will either spontaneously create a new being or that something or someone will be merged into it so closely that the difference does not matter.

Either way, an entity that, for all its intents and purposes, was the thing that it protected, sat alone at its stone desk and frowned at a single piece of paper.

Originally, the paper was blank, but for the words of Truth. For hundreds of years, a single point of light had made a constant home upon the page and that was Good, for it represented the hope that the gift might someday be Received...

If one or more had shown fitfully and disappeared, before or during that constant pulse, the knowledge had been lost with time.

##

The giver was annoyed and slightly afraid, because lights were scattered all over the surface of the paper, nearly crowding out some of the words and that was Wrong. The words could mean one or be stretched to mean several; in the case of one Earning the gift the disbursement was simple. In the case of a few, one could be picked alone to Receive, or the gift duplicated, or the original gift divided evenly between... The choice was not up to the giver or the gift, but its backers. In the case of many- If the backers knew that the potential for Receiving was Many...

The being that was both the Shanshu Prophecy and its giver shuddered, splitting down the middle to reform as twin beings the same size as the original.

One of them picked up a piece of paper with the previously written words of Truth. If parts were roughly translated, it could be read as: '_The vampire with a Soul will play a pivotal role in the Apocalypse and be Rewarded with humanity to [possessive pronoun] tastes... Heaven and Earths will bent by this gift... so that the Receiver might become both human and content to be as such-_'

The sheet this being held had, besides the unchanged Prophecy, only a single grain of light glowing brightly on it. Knowledge of its continued safety brought pleasure to the being's cold heart.

The other half of the freshly split being found itself no longer able to submerge its own identity in the certainty of the prophecy it carried and, with a sigh, became female.

The anthropomorphic personfication rose to her newly created feet and strode across the room, clothed in a hooded robe and holding a piece of paper. The sheet was blank but for myriad points of light and a sparse sentence of Truth, way down at the bottom of the page. If the footnote was roughly translated, it would read: '_The Souled vampires that have this and these running through their blood in amounts that define them, by benefiting from this new Prophecy, forfeit that one __**named**__ Shanshu. So it is Written. So is it Done._'

The being that was both the unwritten Prophecy and its giver ascended the stone steps that had never held a foot before, to stand outside.

As a breeze brushed her face and she reflexively shut her red-irised eyes, a thin smile spread across her chiseled, green face.

_Rather than forced to wait for my main event, as my 'brother' is waiting even now,_ she thought to herself. _I am free to walk about the surface, for a long and interesting duration._

The Unwritten Prophecy opened eyes upon the world set before her and, in high spirits, strode out to greet the dawn and make a name for herself.

Literally.

##

**-Room 303, Somewhere in Cleveland-**

Cain Dennings woke up in a darkened room, shades drawn against the night.

He sat on the edge of the bed and, head pounding, tried to piece together shattered memories.

His life was clear, right up to the point where he had been drained by moonlight, his spirit flowing out of him until nothing was left.

Beyond the impression of his being awake since then, he wasn't coming up with much.

He sat there, trying to convince himself that it was just a bad dream, but the fact that he could hear all the noises in the street below him, smell in richer detail than he had ever imagined and, despite the absence of light, see everything around him in shimmering waves of heat.

All the enhanced senses were pointing to one conclusion, but he rejected it in favor of his sanity.

_Sure, _he thought. _I'm a vampire now -or some kind of alien- but that does not mean I have to be a bad guy. My soul was drained, but I can _see_ it now, within myself, flowing at an appropriate level. So I'm okay. I'll just had to watch my diet... Butcher's blood if I can stomach it, or willing victims that I'll want to leave alive and compensated... _

"Oh, great," he said aloud, giggling hysterically. "I'll need money for that. I'm undead now, maybe I can ghostwrite."

In his laughter he moved his hand slightly and, when it touched something slightly sticky on the bed, he rose to his feet, buoyed by what his senses were telling him and what his mind refused to keep from him any longer.

"I know there's something wrong here. Beyond the things I'm not letting myself see I have the nagging realization that I can't have regrown my soul back to this level of sanity completely on my own."

Prompted by his own words, he crossed the pitch black room to the light-switch, which he found too easily despite his lack of conscious memories concerning the place.

His heart beat rapidly with the scent of his own fear.

When Cain flipped on the light and turned around, his screams were loud and long and heartfelt.

##

**-A Sidewalk in Sunnydale-**

A vampire named Fred had snuck out of Cleveland because he was sick of how Jonas was ruling his breed with an iron fist.

Fred needed to make a name for himself, so he caught a flight west and sought out the Slayer, intending to be the first of his kind to confront her.

He hoped he would be the last foe she would ever face.

Before confronting her, he stalked and drained a fresh soul so his powers would be at their strongest. Not only did he make no effort to infect the victim, he had broken the man's neck to remove even the faintest possibility of him rising again.

If there was anything Fred did not want, it was competition.

##

Quietly, the Windfell vampire watched the blonde woman approach. He knew in an instant that it had to be her, the Chosen One, from the brightness and vitality pulsing _within/throughout_ her skin.

He lightly dropped to the ground from his perch in the tree, silently dissolving as he fell.

Buffy stiffened as she sensed the presence surrounding her.

When air movement signaled a blow aimed for the back of her head from behind, where no-one had stood a second before, she was able to react slightly and avoid the full force of the blow.

Despite being slightly dazed, she managed to avoid his next move to grab her.

She ran, with Slayer speed, to a better position. Whipping out a sharp and pointy object she spun to face her attacker.

Fred, his moderate but effective fangs bared at her in challenge, decided to burn the fresh energy coursing within his veins on increased speed and, by doing so, easily dodged the thrown stake.

At a heart-stopping rate he charged in for the kill, but even his enhanced blows were met one by one with enough resistance that her blocks actually began to push him back. Without increasing his strength he could not make headway and that was something he could not do in a single battle once he had focused on speed.

It occurred to him to change tactics.

##

Fred stepped back out of the Slayer's reach.

At her advance, he stepped back again and again, then pulled out a white handkerchief.

After dodging yet another thrown stake, he mopped his brow and, sitting down in front of the surprised Slayer, changed into mist.

That was not something she had ever expected a _real_ vampire to do, but she adapted accordingly.

Unfortunately for Fred, he was neither smart enough nor skilled enough to plan effectively.

Buffy's head whipped around in seemingly futile search, tracking the faint cloud without appearing to, so she was completely prepared for his reforming a few feet above her.

She twisted and thrust upward.

A free-falling Fred impaled himself rather violently upon the wooden stake.

Buffy was shocked when he did not disintegrate into a pile of dust and instead landed on her with his full weight. She barely remained standing. Despite his injury, he even managed to grab hold of her arm. She could see the heart pulse against the stake lodged within it as his skin attempted to knit together and cover the wound.

However, when the regeneration process brushed up against the unvarnished wood, it reacted violently and shut down his enhanced healing factor throughout his entire body. Barely able to sit up, he gnawed weakly at her flesh.

In pain and in complete disgust, Buffy shoved another stake through his eye, piercing his brain.

He let go of her, slumped to the ground, shuddered and finally died.

##

After Buffy had buried the body, she ran to the house of her Watcher, Rupert Giles.

He looked up from his research and was less than impressed by her babbled report.

"Buffy, I'm sorry, but I have more important things to do than deal with you on this," the ex-librarian sighed, removing his glasses as he began to polish them. "What you have slain is likely nothing more than a vampire-obsessed human mage armed with possibly homemade spells that mimicked his favorite thing. Even going so far as to set off your senses. You would think that a man that intelligent and creative would be smart enough to avoid the True Slayer completely, let alone..."

He froze, having listened to what he was saying. "On the other hand, considering that the regeneration was apparently proceeding without conscious control and was repulsed by the wood, he'd probably already invested himself with something along the lines of a blood spirit thereby rendering himself nonhuman and beyond saving. What you did was both self-defense and, in all probability, a mercy killing. I hope that you took the proper precautions to avoid further interest and that you'll never wind up in the same position again." He looked up at her, his eyes filled with concern and sympathy. "Did you say you buried the body in a graveyard?"

"Yes," she replied, dryly. "In two graves."

##

**-Room 303's Bathroom, Somewhere in Cleveland-**

Cain Dennings, a recently risen vampire coming to grips with his soul, remained bent over the toilet bowl, feeling like he'd been in that position for an eternity.

Fighting off the last remnant of the waves of nausea that had coursed throughout his being when he had seen the broken... bodies in the next room, he stood up, slowly and carefully. He stared at his haggard reflection in the hanging mirror and came to a decision.

"The first thing I'm going to do," he said to center himself. "Is destroy the crime scene. I'm not going to jail over something my body did while my brain was on vacation. The second thing I'm after is research. Knowledge is power. The third thing will include some random acts of kindness, hopefully netting me a blood donor I won't need to kill. The fourth thing will be to find the guy or guys that did this to me and make their non-lives as hard as possible.

"This is no longer a simple matter of dealing with an odd hunger. This is a matter of redemption."


	3. Infection: Others

BtVS by Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Shadowrun RPG by FASA, WizKids, FanPro, Hare-Brained Schemes.

While I use map programs to determine the positions and sizes of cities, the locations in this Cleveland are fictional. Hmm... Also, I think I need something at the back of my mind while I write this chapter... I'll go with 'Subtext: Fire'.

* * *

**-2000 AD, Cleveland-**

In a dance club, in one of the hotter spots of Cleveland, a woman with long black hair danced like she was having one of the happier times of her life.

When she spun, her hair shifted to reveal pointed ears. No-one minded overly, for she was beautiful.

When she finished, she left alone through the back door, headed out towards the quiet spot where she had entered the reality.

However, her path was abruptly blocked by a pale man.

##

Frowning at the interruption, she decided that she no longer cared about her nearly nonexistent cover now that she was on her way home.

Gathering herself, she flung a small ball of fire just past the man's ear in hopes of showing him that she was not to be trifled with. A faint sound alerted her to the presence of people behind her, so she managed to spin around in time to see the last of that particular pack of viral vampires forming out of mist.

She grinned, because she had proof her opponents were not normal and that meant she could let loose with the full extent of her fury.

If there had been even one less and they had been underfed she would have won...

Despite their losses, they were able to subdue her long enough drain her spirit completely.

Motivated by curiosity, they moved her body to a covered place and inflicted her with the transforming sleep.

##

The elf had breached the barriers to Cleveland easily, because of the restless Hellmouth, but a more normal and rigid dimension would have been safer.

Struck down for her pride, Warrior-Princess Hammer of the Lily was never going to go home again, no matter how badly her troops upon the cliff needed her.

Her body had become soulless, for she had been drained, and mindless, because she'd lost something that would never return.

What little was left opened sightless milky-white eyes upon a world that only offered pain and screamed the hunting call of the Dark Fae, the banshee.

##

**-A Darkened House on a Street-**

Smedley was just your normal Gnork half-demon trying to find a job in the big city, until he awoke to the sight of a lady in red standing over him. She was Jonas' first victim and had renamed herself Alice, but he wasn't exactly in a position to know.

Before standing to confront the apparition, he glanced over to the books of magic on the shelf by his bed and muttered the small cantrip that would make his sweat a deadly poison.

When the time for conversation had passed and the fighting had begun, he held his own but, finally, he was brought down to his knees.

Her fangs sank into his neck, bringing forth a surge of raw emotion. The few parts of his mind still capable of coherent thought realized that, despite all he had heard, vampires could in fact enter a house uninvited.

Unfortunately for him, his poison had no hope of working against one already dead.

##

Days passed until he finally rose from his transforming sleep.

He had gained over a foot in height, among other things.

_Great, _he thought to himself. _I'm evil now. Guess I'll become a supervillain. I wonder if I'd look good in a cape..._

"Huh," he said, walking over to a mirror. "I thought my family couldn't be turned into vampires. Well, I guess I'm not exactly a vampire either."

He stood there examining his new body, a full seven and a half feet tall, covered from head to toe in thick white fur, all fangs and claws.

"You know, this will do. Wait. _Nice_," he said, realizing the effect the transformation had on his voice. "This I can use."

Walking over to a book of poetry he read aloud, the sound a pure and soothing butter, a warm balm that people would want to wrap themselves in, a barrier between them and a cold and heartless world.

With his honeyed words he could talk a grown man into selling his own right arm, and the thought of that warmed Smedley's heart...

"So, I want to snack on people's souls now and consume human flesh. I could fight it, I suppose, but I don't really see the need. I feel my soul inside me and I'm at peace with what I can become. Question is, should I sneak off to the northern woods and start a small cult of cannibals or stay in the big city and rot it from the inside?"

After wondering for a bit about what else he could do, he smiled and let loose something that had been building up inside. His hunting call was the sound of crackling ice, of cabin fever, of whistling wind, of nature cruel and mean, of lost climbers finally eating the bodies of their dead... and those still living...

##

Deep in thought, he walked through the house, gathering some personal effects together. When he reached some very special supplies, he smiled and drew upon the mystical energy surrounding him.

"You know, I had dabbled before my 'death', but now the power just comes so easily," he said, smirking as he summoned a hint of flame to roll around his clawed fingertips. "Shame to let this energy go to waste, and this place always has been such a dump anyway."

After reaching for one, final item, he recoiled in surprise and pain.

"Oh, hell. I guess ferrous metals don't like me much, do they?"

Grimacing at the very faint hurt still emanating from his hand, he wrapped the iron medal in a cloth and walked away with it.

##

Smedley the vampiric yeti-type being with a rough counterpart in Native American myth calmly stepped out the front door of what had been his home and tossed the small, half-seen bit of fire over his shoulder.

The building erupted into an immense fireball, yet he did not pause a second to enjoy the sight.

Smedley the wendigo stalked forward, ginning evilly, as his dark shadow, made long by the flames behind him, covered the world before him...

##

**-The Future Site of Synaesthesia Corp's New Headquarters-**

Esmerelda Ray, the local Potential Slayer, was on patrol around the construction site, deserted at this time of night, when she heard the screams.

_I'm afraid,_ she realized suddenly. _Someone must be using magic to try and drive me away..._

Despite the unnatural fear that coursed through her she approached the source of the sound, which turned out to be a black-haired woman stalking towards a cowering teenage brunette.

The poor girl on the ground was so scared she could nothing but huddle silently in fear.

"What are you trying to do," Esmerelda said angrily as she spun the shrieking woman around. "Give the poor thing a heart attack?"

The milky-white eyes and the fingernails that raked toward her face spoke louder than a simple 'yes' would have.

Coincidentally, Esmerelda's battery-low cellphone chose that moment to silently go dead.

##

The red-haired Potential Slayer and 'Lily', the dark-haired banshee, circled each other warily as the civilian ran, crying, towards safety.

With her improved hearing, sense of smell and low-light vision, Lily might have noticed Esmerelda's approach sooner, had she not been so focused on her meal.

Sure, Lily had the normal immunities to age, disease and poisons, but, had she been slightly more together, she would have realized she really had gotten the shaft as far as vulnerabilities went. Her status as a HMHVV-infected elf meant that she was not only allergic to sunlight, but to silver and wood as well.

##

Lily deftly avoided Esme's first attack and turned the full force of her scream upon her opponent.

Esme was so overcome with fright, she had no choice but to turn and run for safety.

Shaking off Lily's influence, Esme skidded to a halt thirty seconds later and turned in time to see the banshee raising her hands above her head in preparation for a spell.

A crackling sound erupted as a lightning bolt shot down from the heavens to strike the ground where Esme had been a second before. It had missed because she was sprawled on the ground a short distance away, under a brown-haired man whose quick action had saved her from the attack.

Lily took that moment to dissolve into mist.

As they came to their feet and stared at each other, Esme's small parcel of Slayer senses went crazy at his presence. Before the red-head could investigate further, the banshee, having reformed a short distance behind the pair, burnt a portion of her soul on enhanced strength and hit the startled man.

The traces of intelligence left in Lily's body had marked him as the unknown quantity in the equation, so she'd dealt him a blow that nearly took his head off.

He went flying to lay crumpled in a corner by some pipes.

Lily avoided the most recent volley of Esme's attacks and again overpowered the human woman with fear.

At that point, Esme could only sink to her knees, scared beyond belief as the banshee circled her and then moved in for the kill.

As the first portion of her soul was slowly drawn from her, the Potential Slayer, through her wide, staring eyes, noticed that the fallen man was nowhere to be seen.

The missing man chose that second to solidify out of a cloud of mist behind the vampiric elf.

##

With surprise on his side it only took Cain Dennings a simple twist to break the banshee's neck.

##

**-A Garage Burning Near Smedley's House-**

Thomas the Rogue Dwarf had been one of the few friends of the local Potential Slayer. He had always enjoyed taking time off from his flourishing business to make souped-up cars for the young lady, all of which, in being used in her line of work, soon died with a blaze of glory. He had smiled happily to himself as he turned off his welder and stepped back to admire his most recent creation, only to find himself surrounded by some very angry vampires that had not taken kindly to his tendency to go axe-hunting.

They had timed their attack carefully, wishing not only to kill him but to have him raise from the dead, their blood running through his veins. It was the beginning of a weekend so he was not missed at work, the Potential Slayer had visited a few hours before and was unlikely to check back in so soon.

The only thing the Windfell vampires had not counted on was Smedley's spell.

The fire that night had already consumed the one fully human victim they'd drained on that particular block, by the time of Thomas' awakening.

The ex-dwarf unsteadily raised himself to his feet and watched the flames dance. The disease had shattered his mind so much all he could do was think about how pretty they were.

The virus had also ravaged his body, stripping him of his body fat and hair.

He drooled slightly as he waved a freshly skeletal hand through the burning prettiness surrounding him.

It could have been anything, even the glossy sheen that had spread to cover his skin, but his arm did not burst into flame. It didn't even char slightly.

After a particularly nasty pop from the burning equipment, the ex-dwarf leapt backwards, upsetting a shelf. The tools rained down around him, causing him to howl in pain because the iron burned his transformed flesh as the fire could not.

Whimpering, Thm the goblin ran off into the night.

##

Two firefighters, out of the many working on the burning street, marked the escape with a few choice words.

"Did a short thing with giant pointy ears just run gibbering out of that fire?"

"Yep."

"Thought so."

##

The blue-eyed and younger member of the fire fighting team had several thoughts run through his mind as he returned to his work.

He realized that the house belonged to a friend of his semi-girlfriend and that withered thing might have been some horribly twisted version of the mechanic.

_Should I call M first and interrupt her nightly patrol,_ he considered, frowning._ Or should I call the Center and report this possible transformation?_

He had been approached by the Center several months into his relationship with the Potential Slayer. Tales had spread of how a soldier called Riley had betrayed his group for the Chosen One, but corruption already had run rampant through the Initiative.

A little inside info on the local Potential Slayer's activities from someone who cared about her would only help them, right?

Maybe even prevent corruption from consuming the Center in the first place...

##

All he had to do to help was secretly look for signs of the mysterious disease that supposedly had invaded his town, which hadn't conflicted with his support of the woman he had feelings for. Not so far, anyway...

##

**-Deeper in the S. Corp Construction Site-**

A short distance from the makeshift pyre where the banshee's corpse was burning brightly, the young woman turned to regard her savior.

"You must be one of those new vampires I've been having to slay recently, but I guess I can make an exception. It feels odd of me to say this, but," Esme said, smiling genuinely as she extending her hand. "I appreciate the help."

"My name is Cain," he said, shaking the offered limb. "Cain Den-" he clarified, trailing off as a stake suddenly blossomed from his chest.

He fell to his knees as blood poured from his wound. He had an idle thought about it ruining his shirt, but then decided it probably didn't matter much...

He shivered uncontrollably as his healing factor tried to absorb the wood, only to shut down throughout his entire body.

##

Esme, the Potential Slayer, stood over him, frowning. Despite encountering them before over the previous few weeks she was still greatly unsettled by vampires who didn't politely poof into dust when their heart was pierced.

"Nice try, Progenitor," she stated, angrily watching him writhe in pain. "Now that you're gone, cleaning up your mess should be so much-"

"Look," he said, gasping. "I'm not the son of Adam and Eve, I'm not a biblical vampire, I'm not even over fucking thirty! It's a human name... And I swear I'm not the first of my kind. You try..." He gasped for breath. "To do a dumb girl a favor and-" he managed to say as he passed out.

##

The damage he'd incurred from blood loss, wounds and general allergic reaction to the wood had reached critical levels...

##

**-A Peaceful Living Room, Somewhere in Cleveland-**

Cain woke up to find a bandage applied to his chest, fresh skin already growing beneath it.

He rolled over, groaning, to see the figure of Esme lit by the flames of the fireplace.

"You know, you're lucky," she stated, idly tossing and catching the stake that had nearly killed him. "And strong too. I don't think that most could have come back from a wound like that, even after the weapon had been removed. My first bunch certainly proves it."

"Since I tried to kill you, we really should be on a first name basis," she continued, grinning ruefully. "My name is Esme, but you can call me 'M'..."

After a short bit of conversation there was a knock at the door.

##

**-Flash Forward: 2001 AD, Towards the Sign of the Fox, Troll World-**

A year or so into the spread of HMHVV through the Buffyverse, a group of Windfell vampires had gotten it into their minds that killing humans was not only wrong but unsporting. A mage within one particular pack began taking his friends on hunting trips to another dimension where the intelligent game was larger and the soul was sweeter.

Interested in what would happen, they decided to sire some of the aptly-named trolls.

##

One day as dawn broke over the horizon, one of these new converts rose from his cairn of stones. His eyes were larger and bloodshot, seeing the world around him in waves of heat.

Blinking against the light that mildly stung his eyes, he stumbled back in the direction of his village, hoping to find shelter. He had grown slightly larger and his horns had bent and twisted. Huge patches of his skin had become lumpy and raised, resulting in an unwholesome and rather unhealthy appearance.

The newly risen dzoo-noo-qua, as he'd have been called in the virus' native universe, stood on the hill above the village that had been his home. His mind had been twisted and warped by the disease so much that he could not recognize the trollish shapes below as his friends and family. His only thought was the desire to chase the 'intruders' out of 'his' territory... By any means possible.

Letting loose a howl of incoherent rage, he charged forward.

##

His best efforts proved to be no match for his clan's hardened warriors, so he was soon brought to his knees.

Raising his bloodshot eyes to the sky he tried one last time to break free...

##

Forced to take matters into his own hands, Olaf the Troll took no pleasure in dispatching his fallen comrade.


	4. Wendigo's Totem

BtVS by Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Shadowrun RPG by FASA, WizKids, FanPro, Hare-Brained Schemes.

Hmm... I've a decent idea of where I want to take Cain and Esme, but I'm not sure what timeframe to follow. Will check back on them in a few chapters.

* * *

Once there was an idea about the End of the World. It happened.

The major players were ideas themselves. Those that lived became real and left the place.

Those that died, stayed behind. Limbo was full of conscious minds waiting for something that had already happened.

##

Asgard had become a cold and dark place.

Odin's shade sat in his throne, sustained by the few that mistakenly believed Ragnarok had yet to come. His bones lay in the skeleton of Fenrir, the great wolf.

Belief is a powerful thing.

##

Loki was one of the few survivors. He left Purgatory ages ago, but he still made it a point to stop by every now and again, to talk to the shades of those he once knew.

He told them of the living stories he had been walking through. He told them of the Earth they might see if they opened their eyes, acknowledged their deaths, and moved on.

For ages, none had been willing. Few understood.

##

Fenrir sat, much as he had for years, chained by a thread. The thread was long gone, but it remained in his mind, as much as a phantom as his flesh and soul.

He had died in the last battle.

A son of Odin killed him by a stab to the heart.

A son of Odin had killed him by tearing his head in half.

Ideas, even ones with souls, tend to blend and merge.

Loki, his father, often sat by him to scratch his furry head and tell him of all the things that had come to pass since Ragnarok. Most visits, only the sensation of his father's touch stayed in Fenrir's memory.

##

**-2000 AD, A Convenient Bedroom, Cleveland-**

Until the change, Smedley had been a relatively peaceful half-Gnork demon, making a living in the largest American city to have a Hellmouth. The other supernatural critters had generally left him alone. Sure, he'd dusted a few _normal_ vampires that had mistaken him for an easy mark, but he hadn't gone out of his way to make the world a safer place.

What had thrown him out of his quiet routine was lady in red who'd made her way into his room. Despite his strength and the small magics he had used to resist her, she had brought him to his knees and drained him.

He had awoke to find himself taller and covered in shaggy white fur, with new powers and a hunger to match. He had gathered some things and burned his house -and most of his block- behind him.

A small bit of legwork had left him with knowledge of what his 'sire' must surely have been. A new breed of vampires, calling themselves the Windfell Clan, had recently appeared in Cleveland. Their effort to cement themselves in his city had been slightly disrupted by the fire he had caused claiming the lives of several of their pledges. He had decided to lie low.

On this night, he'd sated his new hunger for human flesh with a homeowning couple and, at least until morning, this bed was his own.

##

In the universe known as 'Shadowrun', thanks to an often lucrative occupation, there is also a fanged race of humans who call themselves 'orks'. When infected with HMHVV they express as furry, cannibalistic beasts. Many gene patterns don't translate well between dimensions, but Smedley had fallen into the acceptable range and therefore was reconstructed with the 'wendigo' template.

Most humans infected with the basic strain of HMHVV become vampires who need to consume human/metahuman blood and drain bits of the life-force commonly known as Essence and generally survive by drinking directly from people in high emotional states. Wendigos have the same need to consume Essence but also require a steady diet of human/metahuman _flesh_... If pressed they can survive off corpses and find other ways to gain Essence, such as becoming an object of worship, but most don't feel the need to do anything other than start with their meal still alive...

It is a lot harder, by far, to be good and a wendigo than it is to be good and a viral vampire.

Smedley hadn't even tried.

##

After eating the choicest bits of flesh and tucking what remained carefully into bed, Smedley sprawled across the lumpy covers - rest his only concern.

His furry frame lay there, stretched above the broken bodies of the home's rightful owners.

That night, he dreamt his first dreams of power.

##

**-A Place That Had Been Timeless-**

One night, a month since Fenrir's father had last paid his son a visit, something changed.

The great wolf had been sustained by stagnant, unchanging belief. Long had he been bound to one spot, ignorant of the passage of time, but, on this particular night, he saw a golden glow in the distance.

It came closer, defining things around it in relation to itself.

Belief is power, was the message it carried.

The river of Hope had long spilled from Fenrir's limp jaws, but that was the first time a fish had found the mouth of the river.

##

The fish swam towards the wolf, all substance, all potential. It did not care whether the wolf was alive or dead, a physical creature or a false memory.

It was someone who only desired power over others and over himself.

Power which Fenrir could give in spades.

##

Conscious of his surroundings, for the first time in ages, the wolf ignored his own body, for it was no longer of use to him. Instead, he gathered himself through sheer force of will and lept at the golden fish. Not to eat it, but to swim _in/through_ it.

There was a moment of confusion...

##

... Then the golden fish flowed with the water back downstream, toward Earth.

##

**-Smedley's Home for the Night-**

In Shadowrun, most, if not all, wendigos are magically-capable 'Shamans'. It's practically a rule.

Smedley had been a magic-user, more of a dabbler, really, to begin with. But, to be a Shaman in Shadowrun, you need a 'Totem'. To the outside world it appears that the Shaman picks his own semi-real, quasi-mythical being/idea/concept to follow. To the Shaman, the Totem is a full-fledged being of power who picks the Shaman out of many. Relativity.

Smedley's new unconscious mind was a shining beacon in the darkness and, having followed his dreams to their source, something was clinging to him, holding on for dear life...

##

Smedley woke up to find an immense wolf sitting on top of him.

As he sat up in fright, the wolf jumped off his chest to pace around the room; this was an odd trick, because it didn't actually move.

_My name is Fenrir,_ it stated. _You are Smedley and I have chosen you to be my mouth and hands in this world. I will make of you a being of great power, if you let me._

"Where do I sign up?" were the first words from the wendigo's lips.

_No physical contract is necessary, _came the silent, yet booming, reply. _I have many agendas you may help me fulfill, although family should probably come first... Maybe, if we have time, you can help my childe, Hate, bring down the Moon._

##

... Time passed …


	5. Wolf's Alley

BtVS by Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Shadowrun RPG by FASA, WizKids, FanPro, Hare-Brained Schemes. Early Edition by Abrams, Brush and CBS.

* * *

**-2000 AD, The Loft Above McGinty's Bar & Grill, Chicago-**

Gary Hobson's alarm rang at 6:30 AM, but it was the silence that woke him up more than anything else.

After switching off the annoying buzz, he threw on his robe and walked to the front door. He flung it open, but there was nothing there.

Frowning, he looked around then padded over to the TV.

_Yep, that confirms it, _he thought._ It's morning and the thing that has basically defined my life for the past four years is nowhere to be seen._

##

After trying to keep himself busy for most of the day and getting rather disgusted with himself in the process, Gary finally took a walk in a park.

He might have seen it as a vacation, but he had the feeling that something somewhere had gone horribly wrong.

##

**-The Offices of Cleveland's Premier Evening Newspaper-**

"What do you mean I'm being fired?" yelled a being best known as the 'Mailer Daemon'. "I founded this place! Me!"

"Them's the breaks," replied the target of his ire. "They bought you out, they can do anything they want."

The Mailer Daemon loudly responded with the proper outrage for the situation, until he realized he wasn't going to get much farther with that approach.

Spinning on his heel, he stalked to his desk. After digging into it with his fingers in frustration, leaving yet another set of grooves across its surface, he sat down to write what he thought would be his final editorial for Cleveland's _Night with Moon_.

##

**-A Park Somewhere in Chicago-**

Sitting on the grass with a sandwich, he heard a 'meow' and a 'thump'. Turning around, he saw a familiar orange tabby looking at him from its perch on the stone surrounding an ornate fountain.

He checked his watch, surprised to find it was 6:30 PM. He froze a second, then shook his head.

He cautiously approached the cat, which butted its head against his hand, before jumping down to twine around his legs as he picked up the sheets the cat had been laying on.

On seeing the header, he took a sharp breath.

"Night with Moon," he read aloud. "Cleveland's Premier Evening Newspaper." He paused, then looked closer. "June 30, 2000. Yep, that's tomorrow alright. Good thing that's normal."

Gary Hobson, a man who for years had been receiving the _Chicago Sun-Times_ a day in advance and so was fairly used to odd evens, turned to the orange tabby cat and frowned.

"At least," Gary said with a long suffering sigh. "You're not pitch black this time."

'Meow'

##

**-Headquarters of Night with Moon, Cleveland, OH-**

Sighing, the Daemon opened up a familiar template, a stylized picture in the upper-left corner with his name and his 'NatDemCpy' e-mail address just to the right of it.

_Goodbye template,_ he thought with regret. _Goodbye desk. Goodbye home away from home._

'_Dear Readers_,' he wrote. '_It is with deepest regret that I end my time with you. I sincerely wish that this paper, founded to further the interests of those of us unable or unwilling to grab the early morning paper, will stay true to itself. I wish that it will continue to brighten up your lives with its unique brand of knowledge and insight into the length and depth of our great city. If only it were in my power to guarantee my own wishes..._'

'_No sense crying over spilt milk. What's done is done. This paper will continue to be an excellent read and many other members of our crack staff will stay with it. The worst that can happen will be that _Night with Moon _will be slightly less honest, slightly less hardcore, and I know from your e-mails that many of you have been crying out for just such a change._'

'_My apologies to all the people I've managed to annoy over the years. My mission and often stated goal has never been to make your lives safer; simply more interesting._'

##

**-Office of McGinty's Pub, Chicago-**

Gary had spent most of the previous two hours making phone calls.

He was very glad it had been a slow news day in Cleveland. Most of the bad stuff had been resolved by him and his friend Marissa doing various voices and giving the right carefully phrased information to the right people.

With that out of the way, he was free to focus on the single story in the evening paper that had to do with his bit of the world.

'_Chicago, IL- This morning, around midnight, a fire erupted in the first floor and basement of a residential neighborhood. Several bodies, of varying ages, were found half-eaten. Oddly, most of them were in the position of murder-suicide. The survivors, possibly those that caused the odd madness, probably set this fire to cover their tracks._'

That had been it, so, trying to find a sympathetic face among those in charge of the paper, Gary decided to send a plea to the outgoing editor.

##

Sure enough, as soon as Gary clicked 'Send' his copy of the paper changed to reflect the next day's new reality.

##

**-Night with Moon Headquarters, Cleveland-**

The Daemon broke off the flow of writing when his mailbox beeped for attention.

"Hmmm..." he mused as he opened the message. "Who would be writing me from Illinois?"

The letter amounted to knowledge that he was losing his job as editor, appreciation of his work and a plea that the 'Outside Events' page for the night would include an expanded section on Chicago.

_Heh, _he thought, shaking his head. _Odd request, surprising that rumor spread this quickly, but it's the least I can do for a fan... _"Oh, well... It's my last day with this paper. Might as well make the most of it."

##

**-Office of McGinty's Pub, Chicago-**

Gary frowned as he read the expanded article. He had hoped for more details on the arson event, but it remained unchanged. Instead, a second news story had appeared above the first one.

'_Chicago, IL- In the alleyway behind the aptly named 'Boggart's Books', probably within the first half-hour past sunset, a young man was decapitated. Still no sign of the head. Why report this minor event? An in-depth look revealed this specific white-lighter has connections to the team in Sunnydale. Expect major shake-ups in the Chicago underworld for some time to come._'

Gary checked his watch, which gave the time as 8:18 PM.

Looking outside, he realized that the sun was setting and that twilight would be soon.

Not good, he thought to himself as he reached for his coat. Not much time left at all.

##

**-A Chicago Sidewalk-**

Oz, Sunnydale's favorite red-headed werewolf, stood just outside an alleyway in the Windy City, peering around the corner. He had just started to move forward when a hand grabbed his collar and forcibly pulled him backward.

Frowning, he shook himself loose and spun around to face the brown-haired man. Oz's keen ears had heard the man's approach but hadn't classified it as a threat.

"Look," Gary Hobson said, with an odd expression on his face. "I don't understand what's going on here, but you can't just take shortcuts at night like this."

"No, I think I'll be okay."

"No, you won't be. Do you have any idea what things hide in alleys around here?"

"Yes, I've got a very good sense of smell," Oz challenged. "Do you know what's in there?"

"Well, no. I don't. But trust me, I've got a very reliable feeling that if you go in there you're going to be beheaded."

The red-head smiled, interested. "Beheaded, eh? Tell you what, stay here, out of sight, and, no matter what happens, give me a thirty-second head start."

"No, I don't think so."

"Well, I do think so."

"Fine! It's your funeral."

"Heh."

##

Gary Hobson stood at the corner, waiting for the exasperating red-head to either get killed or not. He heard clanging and yelling and more clanging.

At the first moment of silence he charged around the corner to see...

##

... The red-head panting heavily next to a six-freaking-foot long sword lying on the ground. The sword's shiny surface was still vibrating from the fall.

There was also a dented silver breastplate that might have fit an old suit of armor and _nothing_ else of interest in the alley.

##

"So?" Gary asked, looking around, before finally turning his gaze up at the sky and the thin sliver of the moon. "Where'd the big guy go?"

"He popped," the shorter man stated, catching his breath. "How'd you know we'd be in here, anyway?"

"I'd rather not say," Gary replied, before his well-trained instinct took over and he pulled out the paper.

The appropriate bit of_ Night with Moon_'s 'Outside Events' section suddenly read:

'_Chicago, IL- This morning, around midnight, in the three-story Oak Park residence of one 'James Olson', a fire consumed the ground floor and basement. This was, presumably, an act of arson meant to cover the depravity found within. Several bodies were half-eaten, most in the position of murder-suicide. Of particular note was the body of a young girl which had been altered to confuse the time of death. A charred copy of today's _Chicago Sun-Times_ had been placed in her backpack several hours after the crime had been committed._'

"Oh, no!" Gary shouted, shocked into motionlessness.

"What's going on?" Oz asked, concerned.

"A young friend of mine is going to be in serious trouble if I don't get across town very fast," Gary said, clenching the paper in his fists. He had decided she'd be the best person to receive the _Sun-Times _early _after _his run had ended, but this... "Her name's Lindsey, and the worst of it is that it's going to be my fault."

"Oh, I've got a van," Oz stated, pointing in the direction of the street, before moving the arm down into a friendly gesture. "You haven't told me your name yet."

"Oh, sorry," Gary said, shaking the offered hand. "Gary Hobson. What's yours?"

"Oz."


End file.
